You never thought you were easy to love.
But it is wondrously simple
When I feel your voice
Close upon my neck,
Every tone easing you deeper into me.
When I hear your heartbeat,
Mine vibrates in time with it.
When I see your eyes flare with desire
Amidst the timbre of our passion,
Or feel delicate skin inflame under my touch
Like smoldering embers again brought to life,
Rising flames from ashes.
When I smell your luscious wet
Spiciness blending with mine
And then taste you,
My mouth explodes in
Sensations phenomenal.
Then all becomes clear and present with me. . .
How can I love you this much?
Because you make it so easy.

I hate T. S. Eliot because he breathed in measured time with his soul's life
and I cannot unearth the life of my soul; because he wrote fabulously obscure
poetry invoking desert wasteland dreams, summoning children to run naked, shout
with freedom's innocence sans fear of reprisals for nakedness or voiced laughter
sifting on dry winds to cloudless skies blue as ink dripping from an archaic
silver-nibbed pen.

I hate T. S. Eliot because he had the good sense to peer inwardly to the
pastiche of his own perversity…and harvest poems that make me weep; because he
could tell Vivian essentially to fuck off and enjoy the asylum life while he
strolled past stanzas of Rimbaud and up the Thames into his own pearls of life,
all the while suffering the Archbishop's every quake in a Canterbury prison as
Henry slept.

I hate T. S. Eliot because he left the familiar now for the more familiar
then with a wicked gleam in his eye, kissing Adonis…couldn't be (American
wouldn't be) British so did both, forever confusing high schoolers and sported
laurel leaves, deservedly so—but I know laurel leaves are poison—he wore them
and thrived on the poison poet's potion while I suck black ink up like a haggard
child sucking the dried dugs of a dead mother.

I hate T. S. Eliot because he dwelled in requiems of pain yet belched out
processional verses that renamed an age while I can only bleed a word onto a
page and hope it smears into a line worth forgetting. Oh, April is the cruelest
month…and I still hate T. S. Eliot because he wore dapper tweed jackets and
crisp white shirts and trousers with perfect lines and looked ever dashing and
poetic, a poet's poet and a dreamer's nightmare.